


When The Day Met the Night

by narcissablaxk



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Because he deserves one, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Season One Canon Divergence, We give Oswald a boyfriend for fun and then a boyfriend for love I guess, Zsaszlepot, gobblepot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 16:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14453562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcissablaxk/pseuds/narcissablaxk
Summary: "When the moon found the sun, he looked like he was barely hanging on."What if Jim went to Oswald's club opening after all? After all, walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light.





	1. Chapter 1

“Did you know that male emperor penguins keep their eggs warm by balancing them on their feet? Isn’t that neat?” The exuberance on his face would have been contagious if he hadn’t just made a penguin joke. Oswald let his eyes slide over to the tall, lanky man standing beside him, his eyes bright and over-eager. He had his hair combed neatly to the side, plastered against his forehead, and a shirt that was easily a size too big for him. If he had more time, perhaps this socially inept man would be a project for him, someone he could groom and build up until he stood tall and proud. But as it was, he was a distraction from his main purpose. And again, there was the penguin joke.

“Keep moving.”

He bowed way too easily. “Will do,” he chirped, casting another glance back at Oswald as he moved back toward the stairs and out a door.

Absolutely maddening. Oswald left his eyes in Nygma’s direction, content to stare at a wall and not the prying eyes of the other officers who knew exactly why he was there, who he was looking for.

A familiar cadence of footsteps caught his attention and he huffed happily, thankful that no one was paying close enough attention to see the blush rising in his cheeks. Jim caught sight of him, a wave of resignation washing over his face, and muttered something to Harvey, who glared in Oswald’s direction before skulking off elsewhere.

“It’s good to see you, old friend,” and it certainly was. Jim looked his typical, gruff self, but he was wearing that shirt Oswald liked so much, the one that brought out his eyes. He turned the embossed invitation over and over in his nervous hands, trying to figure out how to broach the subject of his club opening.

“What are you doing here?” Jim’s voice was hushed, like he couldn’t bear to be overheard. Another side effect of his unassailable conscience, Oswald supposed. Couldn’t let his precious, corrupt coworkers know he was anything akin to them.

“I wanted to invite you to a party I’m hosting,” Oswald began.

“No thanks,” the rebuff was far from gentle.

“I hear you,” Oswald said with a smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “Too busy, I suppose.” He took in the bags under Jim’s eyes. “Tricky case? Something I can help with? You know, it went so well last time.”

“I don’t want your help. It was a mistake to ask.”

Typical Jim. Even when he accomplished something, if it hadn’t happened in the exact way he wanted, it was a failure.

“I don’t want you coming here,” his hand was firm on Oswald’s arm, so tight that Oswald felt his lips purse in displeasure.

“You shouldn’t treat me this way, Jim,” Oswald said, his voice low. “One day soon, you’ll need my help. You’ll come to me. And walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light.”

Jim leaned back, his eyes scrutinizing Oswald’s face, though if it was because he found some sort of profundity in what he said or if he was trying to find a lie in his face, Oswald didn’t know.

“Good luck with your police work,” he said, reaching and taking Jim’s hand. He didn’t move away, but watched, as though transfixed, as Oswald turned it over and pressed the invitation into his palm. “Please, reconsider my invitation,” he patted the invite down, curling Jim’s fingers over it. “It won’t be the same without you.”

***

Jim stared at his reflection in the locker room mirror, his index finger finding a spot of blood on his forehead. Gerald Crane’s blood, it had to be. The sounds of Jonathan’s screams still echoed in his ears, punctuated only by the gunshots.

He wiped at the blood, smearing the almost dried stuff across his forehead. With a groan, he reached in his pocket for the handkerchief he always kept there. He yanked it out, hearing something else flutter to the floor. Too preoccupied with the blood on his face, he chose to ignore it until he could determine his face was blood free.

He found another bit of it under his jaw, and had to wash his hands to get all of it off his hands, but he went through the motions almost absently, trying to shake the evening from his mind.

Gotham constantly gave him new challenges, and new challengers he had to oppose, but this was a new brand of crazy. The idea of an inoculation that made you immune to fear; it was something out of a science fiction film. It was…far too ridiculous for him to just…accept.

But the evidence was all over his face, smeared on his handkerchief, and imprinted in his brain.

He surveyed his tired eyes in the mirror and sighed. He needed a drink.

He crumbled up the handkerchief to put it back in his pocket, far too tired to worry about folding it, and his eyes caught a bit of gold, shining on the floor. Oswald’s invitation. He bent down to scoop it up, his eyes running over the words for the first time.

***

Of all the times Jim walked into Fish Mooney’s club, he never heard music. Perhaps that was the mistake of walking into a club during the day; now he could hear a distantly familiar song pouring out the front door.

“No more heroes anymore,” he muttered in time with the music. How appropriate.

He handed the invitation to the man at the door, who gave him a brief once over but mercifully didn’t pat him down and stepped inside. Where Fish’s club had been all red and gold and almost old fashioned, Oswald had made everything sleek and modern. It didn’t even look like the same place.

In spite of himself, Jim was impressed.

Oswald himself was not hard to find; he looked the most at-home here, surrounded by neon lights, his suit impeccable. But he had that pinched look on his face, the same one that he gave Jim when he threatened him. It was surreal to see him making that face at someone who wasn’t Jim, but when he realized who he was talking to, it made sense.

Maroni was just as large and wide as Jim remembered, his resemblance to a bull unnerving him as much as it did the first time he met him. The man dropped a hand on Oswald’s shoulder, deliberately heavy, and Oswald flinched away from it.

Jim was tempted to leave them to their conversation, to order a drink and let Oswald handle his business, but as Maroni’s grip on Oswald’s shoulder tightened, he straightened his back and stepped in before he could stop himself.

“You better hope that old man Falcone lives a long life. Because the second he’s out of the picture, so are you.”

“Great opening, Oswald,” Jim interrupted pointedly, his eyes on Maroni. “Don Maroni, I never expected to see you here.”

Maroni had the nerve to smirk at Jim, his hand still on Oswald’s shoulder. “I’m nothing if not a patron of the arts,” he answered blandly, jerking his head in the direction of the band. “Just came to give Penguin here my well wishes.”

“I’m sure,” Jim let his hands find his hips, pulling his jacket just open enough to flash his gun. Maroni’s eyes found it almost immediately, and he grinned.

“You really are a resourceful little cockroach, aren’t you, Penguin?” he said, with a hint of misplaced pride. “First Falcone, and now the GCPD. Careful with the cops, boy, they’ll chase away your business.”

He took his leave, sidling into the crowd and out the door, leaving Oswald and Jim alone.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Oswald said, his face stern but his voice relieved.

Jim shrugged. “I had a long day, and I needed a drink.”

Oswald motioned to the bar. “Whatever you want, on the house.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t –”

“You just saved me from Maroni, it’s the least I can do,” Oswald waved him off and turned to the bartender. “Whatever he likes, no charge.” The bartender nodded and winked, though if he was winking at Oswald or Jim, it was impossible to tell.

They sat in a surprisingly comfortable silence for a few moments before Jim forced himself to speak. “This place doesn’t even look –”

“Doesn’t look anything like Fish’s club, does it?” Oswald asked proudly. “That’s what I wanted.”

“It looks good, Oswald,” Jim admitted, taking a sip of his whiskey. Oswald furrowed his brows at him, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was talking to Jim Gordon, who, just a few hours ago, told him that he never wanted to see him again. “What?” he finally asked when Oswald kept staring.

He expected Oswald to point out Jim’s complete change of heart, his compliment of the club, something. But instead, he struggled not to smile. “You have…something, on your face –”

With a tentative hand, cool and soothing, he reached out and wiped at something on Jim’s jaw, showing Jim the smear of what had to be blood as proof. Jim sighed and sipped his drink again, trying to ignore the ghost of Oswald’s fingers lingering on his cheek.

“Blood,” he confided. “We found the guy we were looking for –”

“Gerald Crane,” Oswald supplied. To Jim’s surprised face, he shrugged. “I told you I could help you.”

He was too tired to even ask why Oswald knew who Gerald Crane was. “Yeah, we got him. And he shot at us, so we –”

“You killed him,” Oswald finished without the slightest hint of disgust or sadness. “You did what you had to do.”

“Is it easy for you?” Jim asked before he could censor himself. As Oswald considered the question, Jim hastened to add, “I don’t mean –”

“Relax, James, I knew what you meant,” Oswald waved him off, reaching for his own glass of champagne. “Killing is not easy, especially when it’s someone you know could be better someday.” He traced his finger over the stem of the champagne flute. “But sometimes it’s a necessity.”

Jim nodded, his eyes on Oswald’s hand, moving almost aimlessly over the sweating champagne flute. “Do you ever…enjoy it?”

“Absolutely I do,” Oswald answered without hesitation. “You forget, James, that I have been stepped on and pushed around my entire life. Being able to finally get the upper hand is a heady experience. One that I am not ashamed to admit I like.”

Jim didn’t know what he expected; he tossed back the rest of his whiskey, the bartender immediately refilling the glass.

“Everyone likes power, Jim,” Oswald added, almost as a secret, his head tilted toward him. “There’s no shame in admitting that.”

That, if nothing else, was true, Jim supposed. He shrugged, his body disagreeing with his mind’s justification. Oswald turned his knees toward him, the better to see his profile.

“You couldn’t save Gerald Crane,” he said firmly. “The man was shooting at you; he killed multiple people, and he would have killed more. You did a good thing.”

“I killed a boy’s father –”

“One does not need a father to survive,” Oswald replied knowingly. “It’s a tragedy, I’m not denying that. But you did your job, and you kept people safe. Sometimes you have to take a strategic loss for the greater good.”

Had Jim had too many drinks, or did Oswald’s wisdom make sense? He turned toward him, feeling marginally better than he had when he walked into the club. Oswald smiled at him, surprise written all over his face, and Jim realized this was probably one of the only times they’d had a conversation that had no hint of violence in it.

“Thank you,” he said truthfully. “For the drinks and…”

“No thanks necessary,” Oswald said softly. “Thank you for coming.” He glanced around the club, at the throng of people on the dance floor. “It was nice to actually have a friend to sit with.”

Jim stood, feeling fatigue rest on his bones a little heavier than before. “Then…perhaps I’ll come back.”

“When you need a favor?”

Jim shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe I just want a drink.”

Oswald beamed at him again, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Then I shall see you soon, old friend.”

Jim walked into the street with a smile on his face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Lee go to the circus while Oswald tries to run his club, with little success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While there will be scenes from the show in this AU, we will diverge from the canon. So, some scenes might be out of order, some may end differently, etc. etc.

_Ring…ring…ring…_

Where was that sound coming from? Jim narrowed his eyes and turned back to his desk, staring at the phone that sat there, unmoving, silent. He turned toward Harvey’s desk, covered in old food wrappers, open files, a coffee cup with just a sliver of yesterday’s coffee and a dead fly in it. The phone, underneath the mess, was still. 

_Ring…ring…ring…_

Right. Cell phone. Jim’s fumbled to fish it out of his pocket so he could answer before it went to voicemail. He glanced at the caller ID, biting back a good-natured eye roll before he picked up. 

“Mr. Cobblepot,” he said, just in case someone was listening. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” 

It had been almost a week since their conversation at Oswald’s club opening; the silence that followed made it seem almost like a weird fever dream. Jim had almost convinced himself that he had never gone, had never sat beside a criminal and a killer and had a drink with him. He could almost pretend like he hadn’t actually enjoyed his company. 

But here was his proof, calling him just as he was about to leave for the evening, the prospect of a date with Lee brightening the dark tunnel that was his life in Gotham.

His voice was playful, light. “Come now, James, don’t flatter yourself. I don’t think anyone is eavesdropping on your phone conversation.” 

How did he always know? Jim sighed and chose not to retort, settling instead on a, “Did you need something? Or was this just a friendly chat?” 

“I left you something at the front desk,” Oswald confided. 

“Oswald –”

“Don’t protest,” he could practically hear Oswald waving off his argument. “I was given a pair of tickets to a show tonight, and I regrettably have work to do, so I can’t attend. I figured you and your girlfriend might enjoy it in my stead.” 

“How did you know about Lee?” Jim asked, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the woman in question couldn’t hear him. 

“Accuse me of something with that tone of voice one more time and I’m going to think you forgot about our pledge to be friends,” Oswald sniffed. “I make it my business to be informed about everything, James. That’s how I remain valuable to you.” 

Jim didn’t know how to answer that wouldn’t sound like a blatant provocation, so he said nothing, hoping Oswald wouldn’t demand some sort of apology. Mob bosses and their ilk were, to a fault, proud. This is exactly the sort of thing Falcone would capitalize on, would push on until he could prove that he had his conversational partner at his mercy. It was a show of power. After a moment of silence, Oswald continued. Jim sighed in what felt vaguely like relief, though why he was relieved that Oswald wasn’t like the rest of Gotham’s mob bosses, he wasn’t sure. 

“They’re just circus tickets anyway,” he relented. “I’m not exactly a big fan of circuses, being called a freak my whole life, so –”

“Understood,” Jim interrupted with a grimace. “I’ll tell Lee. But if she doesn’t want to go, I’m not going.” 

“It would be dumb to go against your girlfriend’s wishes, James,” Oswald agreed. “I’m glad I didn’t have to point that out to you.” 

There was a smile in his voice, Jim could hear it. It provoked his own. “Shut up,” he chuckled, hanging up the phone without saying goodbye. 

***

Oswald tucked his phone into the inside pocket of his coat, his smile fading as he cast his eyes over the club, empty except for a couple in the corner and his mother, at her own table in the middle of the room. Her presence bolstered him, especially when she turned and gave him a warm smile over her shoulder. 

He could never tell her how he got this club. He could never do that to her. 

His eyes landed, again, on the empty chairs throughout the room. This was the fourth day with less than ten people; his hope that it would get more crowded as the night waned was thin. Insecurity nibbled at him: people preferred this club the way Fish ran it, they preferred Fish, he was just a freak, like everyone said. 

His mind wandered as he stared at the empty stage. He prided himself on being a self-made man, someone who rose from the bottom of the river (literally) to get to where he was with little help from anyone else. It was a vital part of his personality that he be able to claim that he did this on his own, that he was independent and capable. 

Now that he had the opportunity to prove it, it seemed like he was failing, in every sense of the word. 

He poured himself a little more wine and had just tipped it toward his mouth when he heard someone’s deliberately heavy footsteps behind him. 

“Penguin,” Victor Zsasz’s eyes were on the décor, on the empty tables, on his mother. 

Oswald swallowed fear and puffed himself up with bravado. “Victor.” His eyes went to the wooden bar, where he had a gun taped underneath it. 

Victor tsked quietly and brought Oswald’s gaze back to himself. “Don Falcone thinks you’re messing up. You don’t know how to run a club. Your numbers…stink.” 

As if Oswald didn’t already know that. He felt panic sink in and settle over him like a shroud. He must have given it away on his face, because Victor smiled. 

To save face, Oswald muttered, “With all due respect –”

“I didn’t come here to talk.” 

Oswald sniffed. “Good manners cost nothing, you know.” 

Victor smirked and gave him a single nod, like he agreed. For a moment, Oswald could pretend that he and Victor were friends, like Victor wasn’t sent there to kill him. 

“Relax,” Victor demanded, snapping his fingers. “I’m not here to kill you. I brought you a gift.” 

***

As far as dates went, this wasn’t the largest disaster Jim had ever endured; he glanced over at Lee, whose eyes stayed on the ringleader, shifting uncomfortably in his seat while the younger men shouted at each other from opposite sides of the room. Apparently the Graysons didn’t get along with the Lloyds. The reason they didn’t get along was a long-winded story that could be distilled into one word. Lila. 

Lee was thrilled, excited that she could see the cop side of things for an evening, her sharp eyes taking in the sideways glances and the whispered words like a true pro. Jim, on the other hand, wanted to go home. This was supposed to be a date, a normal date. 

Quickly, and before he could stop himself, he pulled out his phone and dialed. 

Before Oswald’s voice came through, Jim could hear the sounds of someone singing, but it was…off key and keening, a sound he would place at a funeral, or a weird karaoke bar. 

“Jim?” 

“Did you know this would happen?” he asked, far more forcefully than he originally intended. Perhaps this is something Oswald thought he would enjoy – a brawl at a circus, a new case to work. 

Oswald paused long enough that Jim almost repeated himself; as he opened his mouth to speak, Oswald’s voice stopped him. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, James.” He sounded tentative, not at all the way he should sound if this was all his plan. 

Jim wavered, but his voice stayed firm. “There was a brawl at this circus. So now I have a brand new case to work.” 

“And you think I gave you those tickets knowing that you would get saddled with _more_ work?” Oswald asked incredulously. “Do you think I know you so little?” 

“It’s a pretty big coincidence, Oswald,” Jim pointed out. 

The wailing in the background stopped, and Jim distantly heard a door close. “In case you haven’t noticed, Gotham is rife with crime. The fact that a criminal gave you those tickets and a crime happened in front of your eyes is not coincidence, Jim, it’s conjecture.” 

Jim floundered, trying to find the words to say that he didn’t mean any offense, he just wanted to make sure, but the words were hard to come by, and before he could form anything coherent, Lee was jogging up to him. 

“We found Lila’s son, Jim,” she panted. “Apparently she’s been missing a few days.” 

“Looks like you have something important to do,” Oswald said coolly. “The next time you want to accuse me of something, find some evidence first. I have better things to worry about.” 

He didn’t have time to answer; Oswald was already hanging up, and he was already following Lee toward a redheaded boy with downcast eyes and a thrift store sweater.

***

“Where were we?” Zsasz slipped an arm over Oswald’s shoulder, leading him back behind the curtain, to Fish Mooney’s private rooms. Oswald had never dared go in there, even after he was given the club. It felt like a place that existed outside of his realm; that room would always be there for Fish, in case she returned. 

But even as he hesitated in the doorway, Zsasz shoved him over into the threshold, taking a leisurely seat at the red leather chair along the far wall. 

“I should get back to the club,” Oswald pointed back out the door, toward the stage, where his mother was in the same room as Butch. In this room, he didn’t own the club; he was just an umbrella boy. After his phone call with Jim, he wasn’t sure he could handle anymore blows to his ego. 

“Butch is watching it,” Zsasz said coolly. “I’m curious to know why you didn’t renovate this room. This could have been your office.” 

Oswald didn’t speak, but turned toward the mirror, surrounded by lights, and surveyed his own reflection, noting the dark circles under his eyes, the slight smear to his eyeliner. He wiped his finger over it, hoping Zsasz would continue if he didn’t speak. 

“Unless you think Mooney is coming back.” 

“I don’t,” Oswald snapped. 

Zsasz smirked, like he gained something from that momentary slip of his temper, and stood. “Embrace who Fish made you to be,” he said, his voice slightly softer than before. “As much as she beat you, as much as you hated her, she molded you. She made you.” 

“ _I_ made me,” he countered, watching Zsasz in the mirror. The man moved toward the rack of clothes in the back of the room and pulled a leather jacket with studs, surveying it curiously. 

“It’s not a show of inferiority to acknowledge the person who helped you become who you are,” he pointed out, slipping the leather jacket over Oswald’s shoulders. “A little advice?” 

“I’m listening.” 

“This is your opportunity to be who you always wanted to be, so why are you going to let the memory of someone hold you back?” He pulled the leather jacket off Oswald’s shoulders a little roughly, sending the smaller man’s shoulder into his chest, and walked back toward the clothes. “I can see, and Don Falone can see, in every respect, you are second-guessing yourself. Embrace you.” 

He was holding open a coat with a fur lining now, and Oswald tucked his arms into it, keeping his eyes on Zsasz as he did. Zsasz smirked, his eyes raking over him. 

“That’s better,” he whispered. 

Oswald turned back to the mirror; the fur coat gave him some stature, gave him something untouchable that made him feel…royal. Instinctively, he reached up to his eyes and smeared his eyeliner a little more. 

Zsasz stepped up behind him. “Good,” he said. “I left Butch here for you to use in the business. Getting your booze, making sure the housekeeping aspect of things is running smoothly. The brand is going to be up to you. But if you fail –”

Oswald swallowed thickly. “I understand.”

Zsasz’s hand caught him around the waist for a moment, turning Oswald back to face him. “Don’t second guess yourself, Penguin. You’re too good for that.” 

***

“Why did you kill your mother, Jerome?” Jim could feel Lee shaking beside him; he itched to take her hand, to comfort her somehow, but he was too focused on Jerome, on the way his tears and his grief slid cleanly off his face and smug satisfaction took its place. 

“Oh you know how mothers are,” he said flippantly, his words soft and expertly chosen. “She just kept pushing. And I’m like fine, mom, be a whore, be a drunken whore even, but don’t be a _nagging_ drunken whore.” 

He was picking up speed, ferocity, and Lee flinched at the sound of his voice. Jim felt goosebumps rise on his skin. 

“Don’t come yell at me to do the dishes if you’ve been _banging a clown_ in the next room!” He laughed, loud, hysterical, almost shrill, and Jim had to blink several times to hide his own wave of fear. 

Gotham was full of darkness, Jim knew that by now, but he never expected a darkness that would sneak up on him the way Jerome did. There was something in him that Jim could see plainly. Evil. He could feel it coming off the kid in waves, tidal waves now that he had been allowed to drop the mask of the grieving son. 

Lee rushed out of the room the moment the confession was done, and it took Jim a while to find her, sitting in the locker room, staring at her hands, legs crossed at the ankle. 

“Is it always like that?” she asked without looking up. He took the seat beside her, letting his eyes stay on her hands, clutching a handkerchief. 

“No,” he said truthfully. “But sometimes it is.” 

She looked up at him, her eyes full of tears. “I don’t think I can do this,” she said softly. 

He didn’t have to ask her to explain herself; he knew what she meant. “Too much for you?” he asked. 

“No,” she released a mirthless laugh that he already missed. “No, it wasn’t. It was scary, sure, but it was also kind of thrilling.” 

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Thrilling?” 

“That’s why I can’t – I can’t do this. I don’t like the way I enjoy it,” she admitted. “What does that say about me, Jim? That I was thrilled when that boy said he killed his mother?” 

Jim sighed, dropping his gaze to the floor. “I don’t know,” he said. 

She dropped her hand on top of his own. “I’m sorry.” 

***

Jim was worried the club would be closed by the time he came by; it was close to 2:30 in the morning, the mist of the streets high and oppressive. He wasn’t sure why he came here, but perhaps it hadn’t even been his decision. Halfway to the club, he realized he wasn’t driving home, and he allowed himself to keep going, in spite of his better judgement telling him to go home and sleep. The bouncer immediately opened the door for him, and he stepped inside. It was surprisingly empty, with an older woman sitting at a table with Oswald, and a couple in the corner, their table full of bottles. They looked to be asleep. 

Oswald immediately looked up at the sound of his footsteps, and lurched to his feet. His eyeliner was smeared in a deliberately messy way, the fur of his coat just barely brushing the underside of his jaw. He looked every bit a king.

“If you’ve come to accuse me of something else –”

Jim raised his hands in mock surrender. “I come in peace,” he said. “I wanted to apologize for thinking the worst of you.” 

Oswald raised his eyebrows. “Butch,” he called, snapping his fingers. The large man Jim used to see at Fish Mooney’s side lumbered into view, the carving of a V obvious on his forehead. “Please take my mother home, see that she gets there safe. James and I have a few things to discuss.” 

The woman Oswald called his mother rose from her seat and tucked her hand into the crook of Butch’s elbow, allowing him to lead her out the front door. 

“It’s better if you don’t meet my mother,” Oswald admitted. “She doesn’t like cops.” 

“Who does?” Jim shrugged. 

“Can I get you a drink?” Oswald asked. “You look like you had a rough evening.” 

“Lee dumped me,” he blurted. Oswald paused, his eyes sympathetic. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and Jim nodded, settling into the seat at the bar as Oswald poured two glasses of scotch. “If it helps, my club has been empty since the last time you were here.” 

“So this is a commiseration drink?” Jim asked, holding up the glass. Oswald shrugged and did the same, knocking back the alcohol without a flinch. 

“You could say that.” 

“You know, if you’re looking for some live entertainment, I know a band that you can hire for cheap. They do some of that same punk rock sound you had at your opening,” Jim suggested. 

Oswald looked momentarily taken aback. “I – well, yeah, sure,” he stammered. A blush settled over his cheeks; Jim shrugged, trying to pretend he hadn’t seen it.

“Consider it an apology for accusing you of something ridiculous,” he said, tapping his glass as Oswald refilled it. 

“I appreciate it,” Oswald said graciously, taking a sip of his drink while keeping his eyes on Jim. The eyeliner made them even more piercing, and Jim shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling like he was being x-rayed. 

“Your club will be fine,” Jim reassured him. “If there’s anyone who can run a club, who can take over for Fish Mooney, it’s you.” 

Oswald smiled softly, sadly. “You know, someone else told me something similar today.” 

“Because it’s true,” Jim replied matter-of-factly. “Is that coat new? I feel like I’ve seen it before.” 

Oswald glanced down at it before smiling. “It’s new to me.” 

“It suits you,” Jim said. 

Hours later, when he settled into bed for only two hours of sleep, Jim would remember the way Oswald grinned, shy and disbelieving, at his compliment.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Red Hood gang terrorizes Gotham, Oswald has to find a way to supply his bar with booze, and Zsasz makes a surprise appearance, and not for business.

A headache pounded through Jim’s head, a drumbeat he couldn’t quite recognize. The sun, shining between skyscrapers, burned his eyes, made him screw up his forehead and send another wave of pain through his skull, and he gripped his gun tighter, trying to blink through it. After this, he noted absently, he need a cup of coffee, and an aspirin. Or maybe six more hours of sleep. 

“GCPD get on the ground!” Bullock’s voice shot through him, and he winced, keeping his gun trained on the man wearing the red hood. The…only man wearing the red hood. 

He wasn’t sure how they got away, or how much money they threw into the street, but the bills littered the damp sidewalk, getting crushed under cars, pummeled into the pavement. Jim felt like one of them. 

“The man in the red hood seemed nice,” one of the clerks muttered, trying to hide the fact that she had easily a thousand dollars tucked away in her purse. 

“Nice?” Bullock almost screeched. 

“Yeah, he said he wasn’t taking our money, just the bank’s money. He gave it all back to the people on the street. Like Robin Hood.” she shrugged. 

“Oh, great, this bank hires communists.”

“Robin Hood stole from the rich and gave to the poor,” Jim corrected, as if the difference would mean anything to her. “These armed thieves only threw cash away to guarantee their escape. It’s different.” 

“The thief back there, he was always checking his watch?” Bullock asked, abandoning the clerk as a bad job and moving on to a witness. 

The man nodded. 

“He was counting down,” Jim supplied. “He knew our response time. But how?” 

“Was there any other time this alarm has been triggered recently?” Bullock asked, his eyes on the clerk, who was trying to stuff the money deeper into her purse. She blinked and shrugged. 

“Wait,” she said. “There was that smoke bomb, last week or so.” 

“Smoke bomb?” 

“A week or so, a small flare or firework. It was set of near the Mortgage’s desk. We thought it was just a kid’s prank.” She looked toward the man who usually sat at the Mortgage’s desk; he nodded encouragingly. Jim wondered if he was hiding a small pile of money in his desk too. 

“We’re going to need surveillance footage of that incident.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Jim heaved a deep breath, seeing his cup of coffee and aspirin get pushed back and farther out of his reach. 

***

“What do you mean we have no booze?” he was speaking through gritted teeth, his hair moving just slightly with every syllable. The bartender’s eyes moved up to the shifting hair, taller than usual, and he moved his mouth wordlessly, like a beached fish. 

Oswald wanted to drive a knife through his open jaw. 

“There’s a wall of bottles behind you,” he pointed out, hoping that this bartender was just playing a stupid, poorly timed joke on him. 

“Just colored water, sir,” the boy finally found his voice. “Always has been. We keep the real stuff down here.” He motioned to the shelf behind the bar where Oswald had always snatched a bottle of champagne for Fish. “But we’re out.” 

Oswald struggled to keep his face impassive, if only so he wouldn’t openly mock his best bartender to his face. “So…duh, order more,” he finally said. 

The bartender (and Oswald used to think he was so pretty) winced, the movement decidedly not-pretty, and said, “We did. It’s just that…” 

“What? It’s just that what?” 

“It’s Maroni’s booze. And he’s a little grumpy with you these days.” 

A little grumpy was putting it lightly, but considering the way the boy was squirming behind the bar at the sight of Oswald’s displeasure, “grumpy” was probably the nicest he could be without outwardly saying Maroni would like to skin him alive and parade the pieces to the entire underworld. 

Oswald rolled his eyes. “He was hardly a fan of Fish, either, and he sold her booze. Business is business.” 

The boy fidgeted again, and Oswald seriously considered his paring knife in his inside pocket, if only to secure the boy’s hand to the bar so he couldn’t squirm anymore. “But he hates you…with a passion. And he can’t kill you, so –”

“This is ridiculous,” he burst out, relishing in the way the bartender flinched from him. “There are a thousand places to buy booze.” 

“That’s where it gets complicated.” 

When this conversation was over, Oswald was going to have to have a very serious talk with himself about killing this little twerp just so he didn’t have to hear him contradict him one more damn time. He breathed heavily, trying to push the rage down for the sake of information, but it bubbled there, under the surface. 

“Maroni supplies this whole side of town. No one would dare cross him to help…you.” 

Oswald had just slid the paring knife from its place when Butch slid into the seat beside him. “You, get going,” he tilted his head, and the bartender scurried away, leaving them alone. Butch chuckled, the sound familiar and grating. It reminded Oswald of times past, where Butch and Fish would laugh at him, would tease him, would bully him. 

“You must take great pleasure in watching me fail,” Oswald relented, wondering distantly if the paring knife would be enough for Butch. But no, he couldn’t do that, Falcone would bring the hammer down on him. Still, the rage and bloodlust lingered. 

“On the contrary,” Butch turned in the seat, letting his eyes roam over the new interior. “I was with Fish when we took this place off a Chinese bookie nine years ago. It was used for cock fighting,” he smiled a little at the memory. “It took forever to get the smell out. My blood, sweat, and tears are in this dive.” 

Oswald pushed himself away from the bar, the memory of Fish too overwhelming for his shaky resolve to keep his violence bridled. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go procure some alcohol for my dwindling clientele.” 

“Let me take care of it,” Butch dropped a heavy hand on Oswald’s shoulder. “I have a few people who are still loyal to me.” 

“How do I know you aren’t going to just –”

Butch tapped his forehead, close to the carving of the V. “Let me take care of it.” 

Oswald watched him leave, aching for a drink he didn’t have. The bartender was still nowhere to be seen, though that was probably in his better interests. He was just about to retreat back to Fish’s room when the front door opened. 

“Butch, don’t tell me you –”

“You’re the Penguin, right?” a short fat man asked, clutching a red piece of fabric in his hands.

“I am,” he answered cautiously. “And who are you? We aren’t open yet.” 

“I just…I need to stay here for a bit,” the man said, brandishing the red hood as if that was supposed to mean something to him. “You’re a friend to criminals, right?” 

Oswald wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he shrugged, limping off toward Fish’s room, where he could think about what to do with his new…patron. 

***

The headache had spread like a vice over Jim’s entire head by noon, tightening and tightening until even a word made him want to tear a chunk of his hair out. They had exactly one witness who wanted to talk about the Red Hood Gang, but all he could give the police was that he was short, fat, and had thrown money around. 

The witness was only willing to talk because he somehow managed to come up empty when he ran outside to get some. 

“Here, have some coffee, you look like shit,” Harvey slid a Styrofoam cup over the desk to him, taking the seat beside Jim’s desk. “Is this because of Lee?” 

“Every time you ask me that, I regret telling you about it a little more,” Jim said, trying to keep his own voice low. 

“What can I say, brother, it’s an obvious connection,” Harvey replied, kicking his boots onto Jim’s desk. The resulting clang had Jim flinching away from the sound. “I’m just using my top-notch detective skills.” 

“Top-notch, huh?” Jim asked sarcastically, taking a sip of the coffee while he opened his desk drawer, searching for his elusive bottle of aspirin. 

“You heard me.” 

Jim allowed himself to laugh for a moment before he tossed back three pills, washing it down with the comfortably warm coffee. In his pocket, his phone vibrated, just enough that he jumped, almost spilling the coffee he’d wanted for so long. 

He glanced at the display and immediately stood up, putting precious space between himself and Harvey’s listening ears. 

“Oswald,” he began. “What’s going on?” 

“Can’t I just call for a friendly chat?” he asked, the faux-hurt softening his voice. 

“The possibility is there, I’m sure, but you usually don’t,” Jim replied, trying not to smile. “What do you need?” 

“Oh, Jim, it’s not what I need,” Oswald practically purred into the phone. “It’s what you need.” 

He furrowed his brow and stepped even further away from Harvey. “I’m not sure I follow.” 

“I hear you’re running point on the Red Hood case,” Oswald pointed out. “Although to be fair, I had nothing to offer you on this case this morning. But it seems fate smiles upon me, and by extension, you.” 

“I’m still not following,” Jim said cautiously. 

“A man came into my club this morning –”

“In the morning?” 

“I know, it was bizarre,” Oswald relented with a chuckle. “But he was carrying a red mask. He said he heard about me and thought he could find a safe haven here. Apparently his little gang friends are trying to kill him for the mask.” 

“Hood,” Jim corrected. 

“Red hood, whatever,” Oswald replied testily. “Either way, your ringleader is currently in my club, so if you’d like to come by and pay me a surprise visit, you might accidentally find a lead on your case. And you know how much I love a surprise visit from my _favorite_ GCPD detective.” 

Jim smirked, trying to hide the smile from Harvey’s questioning glance. “You know what? I think it’s time for a surprise inspection, Mr. Cobblepot.” 

“You are the boss, Detective,” Oswald replied. “See you soon.” 

***

“A toast,” Butch held up a glass of hard won scotch, clinking his glass gently against Oswald’s. Oswald pulled the glass to his nose and sniffed, watching closely when Butch didn’t immediately put his lips to the glass and drink. “I’m not trying to poison you.” 

“Forgive me for being cautious,” Oswald sniffed, taking the whole drink in one gulp. 

“If this club tanks, Falcone is never going to trust either of us again,” he said quietly, staring into the bottom of his glass. Oswald momentarily felt a rush of sympathy for him. 

“Well, I suppose that’s true,” Zsasz’s voice was barely over a whisper, and far too close. Oswald jumped, his glass clanking obviously against the table. “I see you went with the leather jacket tonight,” he pulled gently on the collar of Oswald’s jacket. “It’s a good look for you.” 

“I’m going to go…” Butch slipped off the chair and lumbered away, never bothering to finish the sentence. Zsasz pulled his eyes away from Oswald and watched him go, a curious look on his face. 

“He’s still serving you well, I see?” he asked. 

“He’s been invaluable,” Oswald answered honestly. “Thank you.” 

Zsasz smiled and shrugged, the compliment obviously pleasing him. “And I hear you booked a new band for the club. Attendance should be going up.” 

“Fingers crossed,” Oswald chuckled, motioning to the same twitchy bartender for a refill. “At least your look will always fit in here,” he said, eyeing the leather vest and strap around Zsasz’s throat. 

“You like?” Zsasz touched the strap tentatively. “I can get you one if you want to try it out.” 

“Yeah?” Oswald asked, taking the new drink from the bartender as Zsasz stepped closer. “Sure.” 

He was standing far too close now, the buckles of his holsters brushing against the lapels of his leather jacket. Oswald was definitely new to the experience, but he was pretty sure Zsasz was flirting with him. Why else would he be looking at him like he wanted to devour him? Unless, of course, this was some elaborate ruse to murder him when he least expected it. 

But suddenly Zsasz was turning toward the bar and ordering a drink, his lean against the bar comfortable and unassuming, and Oswald was forced to watch as the bartender passed him an entire bottle and two glasses. 

“Come,” Zsasz ordered, crooking his finger at Oswald. “Let’s have a drink somewhere more…private.” 

This was definitely flirting, and flirting that was easily escalating into something much more real. Still, Oswald followed him, if only to sate his curiosity. Zsasz led him into Fish’s room, leading him over the threshold instead of pushing him this time. He leaned against the counter, littered with Oswald’s makeup, and popped the cork on the champagne expertly, pouring a generous amount in both glasses. 

He held out the glass to Oswald, pulling it just out of his reach when he held out his hand for it. Oswald raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Come and get it,” Zsasz said, holding the glass just behind him. 

Oswald felt like a child. “Give it to me,” he said instead. 

Zsasz lowered his chin to catch his gaze. Gone was the predator in his gaze, replaced with mischief. “Make me,” he whispered, ducking in close to Oswald and then moving back to watch his reaction. 

Almost immediately, like it was a reflex, Oswald had his little paring knife in his hand, directed as Zsasz’s neck. “I _could_ make you,” he pointed out. 

Zsasz’s hand caught his wrist and pulled it away from them both, twisting his wrist so the knife landed quietly on the floor. “I’m not opposed to that,” he chuckled, “but that’s not what I meant.” 

Before Oswald could even begin to unravel what exactly he meant by that, he was kissing him, somehow maintaining enough control to put the full glass of champagne on the counter before they could spill it. Zsasz’s hands slipped under the leather jacket, around his waist, pulling Oswald’s shirt up so his hands could touch bare skin, pushing him toward the red leather couch behind them. 

His mind was just starting to catch up, but his hands were far ahead of his mind. He allowed Zsasz to gently push him onto the cushions, reaching for his shirt buttons when Zsasz nudged his chin up with his nose, his lips pressing to the tender skin of his throat. 

“The door,” he could barely get the words out; every breath seemed to be chased away by Zsasz’s lips on his neck. “The door doesn’t lock.” 

“Does that bother you?” Zsasz pulled back, his voice much deeper than he remembered. 

Oswald hesitated, his hands still moving, tracing over Zsasz’s now exposed stomach and back. “I – well –”

“I can help you forget all about that pesky door,” Zsasz promised, ducking down again to nibble at his neck, laughing when Oswald yelped. “Relax,” he shushed him, his finger pressing on his bottom lip. 

Without thinking, Oswald opened his mouth and pulled Zsasz’s finger inside, just barely sucking before releasing it, paying very close attention to the way his body tensed, the way his breathing all but stopped. 

“How did I know you were going to be a tease?” Zsasz asked, his tone almost affectionate. Oswald grinned wickedly, reaching for Zsasz’s hand and bringing his fingers back to his mouth. This time, Zsasz pulled away from his neck to watch him suck on his fingers, the predatory gaze returning in full force. It was intoxicating, seeing someone completely at your mercy for something other than holding a weapon to them. 

He loved it.

Oswald was trying to gather up the courage to reach for Zsasz’s belt when someone knocked loudly on the wall outside the room. “Boss, Detective Gordon is here to see you.” 

Zsasz groaned and stood, reaching for his open shirt to button it up. 

“I’ll be right there,” Oswald called, sighing, trying to control his breathing, trying to chase the redness from his cheeks. As he stood up, he noticed a light bruise on his neck, in the shape of Victor’s teeth. Victor caught his gaze in the mirror and smirked, reaching up to his neck and touching it gently. 

“That’s what you get for pulling a knife on me,” he said softly, and Oswald laughed, full and reckless. 

***

The new band was in full swing when Jim spotted Oswald stepping through the curtain that led to the rooms in the back; the crowd wasn’t large, but there were at least…twenty people there, if his counting was accurate.

He felt Oswald’s presence before he looked his way. “This is becoming a habit, isn’t it?” he asked, tilting the glass of dark liquid in Oswald’s direction. 

Oswald shrugged, a blush high in his cheeks, and sat down. “I’d say there are far worse habits to indulge in.” He pulled the collar of his leather jacket up just a tad higher, as if it didn’t already cover his entire neck and part of his ear. 

“Thank you for the tip today,” Jim said, turning toward Oswald, telling himself he was turning closer to the band he enjoyed. “We were…struggling.” 

“That’s what friends do,” Oswald pointed out, his gaze dropping to their almost touching knees. He motioned to the bartender for another drink, passing over his empty champagne glass he’d been holding when he walked up. In the process of his wave, his collar slipped down just enough for Jim to catch a glimpse of his neck. 

“Oswald…” Jim said cautiously. “What happened to your neck?” 

Immediately, the blush that had just receded was back in full force, and Oswald immediately tucked the collar under his jaw again. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said unconvincingly. 

Jim cleared his throat awkwardly. “Do you – do you have a hickey?” 

“I said I don’t know what you mean, Jim,” Oswald insisted. 

Jim laughed, if only because Oswald was suddenly such a bad liar. “I’m not going to arrest you for having a hickey, you know,” he said. “So…” he leaned closer, so their knees were really touching now. “Who is the lucky man? Or…woman?” He didn’t want to assume. 

“ _He_ is a bit of a secret,” Oswald said leadingly, taking his new drink and sipping deeply from it. 

Jim smiled and leaned back toward his own space. “Well, I hope you left a mark to match.” 

Oswald, who was in the middle of another drink, coughed, the redness stretching all the way to his ears. Jim, unable to resist, leaned closer again. 

“I mean, you give what you get, right?” he asked. 

Oswald cleared his throat, setting his glass down on the bar definitively, and Jim laughed more fully this time, enjoying the easy reactions. He was about to press his luck a little bit farther when his phone rang. 

As he reached for the phone, he watched Oswald knock back his drink and pull his collar away from his neck nervously. 

“Bruce?” he asked, all frivolity immediately draining away. Beside him, Oswald turned, his brow furrowed in concern. “Yeah. Which hospital?” 

Before he could even hang up, Oswald was pushing him toward the door. “Go. My car will take you wherever you need to go.” 

He barely had time to blurt out a thank you before Oswald shoved him toward the black town car, parked right by the entrance to the club. 

“Gotham General, please,” he told the driver, who nodded. “And step on it.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim realizes that corruption at GCPD runs deeper than he'd hoped, and that leads him on a chase for Commissioner Loeb's secret files. That means he has to ask for Oswald's help. Again.

Jim arrived at the hospital faster than he dared hope; Oswald’s driver plowed through back alleys and darkened streets he didn’t recognize, far over the speed limit, but Jim didn’t have the patience to rebuke him. He felt a rush of gratitude for Oswald suddenly, so quick and so strong he felt like it could knock him over. He didn’t ask, didn’t pry, but immediately offered up his own car, knowing that Jim could use his time in the car to learn the driver’s name, to make it difficult for Oswald to use the same discrete driver in the future. 

All because Jim looked worried. It spoke of a connection far deeper than just a working partnership that erred toward friendship when you squinted and tilted your head, but before Jim could really think about the implications, the car was screeching to a stop and he was flying out the door, throwing back a hurried but sincere “thank you” to the driver, who gave him a salute and pulled away. 

It wasn’t as bad as he expected, but it was bad enough. The stab wound in Alfred’s abdomen was deep and ruthless, but whoever had dealt it was kind enough (or incompetent enough) to miss his vital organs. He lost his spleen and a decent amount of blood, but with a little bit of time, he would recover completely. 

Bruce looked to be worse than his butler, ashen white under his thatch of dark hair. His nails were bitten down to the quick, his eyes unsteady and searching for something beyond his reach. 

Half an hour and a hand on his shoulder was all it took to reassure Bruce that Alfred would be fine, that he should get a good night’s sleep and some comfort food, and in that half hour, Bruce also managed to repay that advice with a lie. 

“I – I don’t know who did it,” he asked when prompted. “I didn’t see him.” 

A lie, Jim could see it all over his face, but he didn’t press him. There would be time for that, time that wasn’t marked by consisted calls by captain every ten minutes on the dot. After the fourth, he finally apologized to Bruce and left the small Wayne family to their own machinations. 

***

“You’re going to what?” his voice was bordering on a growl, his control thrown completely out the window. He was too exhausted to care about keeping a poker face now. “Free Flass? Are you kidding me?” 

His captain looked apologetic, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “We had the murder weapon,” he pleaded. “We had his prints.” 

“Apparently a witness came forward,” she said, dropping into her chair with the same exasperation that Jim felt. “Cleared Flass of all charges.” 

“What witness?” he asked belligerently. 

“I have no idea. Only the judge and the lead attorneys were privy, and our D.A. is staying mum.” 

Jim could hear the blood pounding in his ears, the anger threatening to take over. This was exactly what he was trying to avoid; he couldn’t let his rage make him lose control. He needed to be level-headed, he needed to stay focused. Focused police work got the job done right. 

But he had been focused, and he had gotten the job done right! This wasn’t about being right, it was about being corrupt. 

The rest of the conversation passed in a blur. The commissioner was the one who provided the witness, and the commissioner was not only letting Flass return to his former position, but he was backing him as the head of the policeman’s union, which would give Flass the power he needed to control Jim for the foreseeable future. 

Before he could get his head on straight, before he had the chance to take a few deep breaths, maybe punch in a locker, he was careening out of his captain’s office and right into the eyeline of Arnold Flass himself, flanked by his sycophants, his smug grin glued permanently in place. 

“Jimbo!” he crowed. “The boys are throwing me a welcome back down at O’Donnely’s. Figure you’d want to stop by, show your support for your future president.” 

“I wouldn’t celebrate just yet,” Jim ground out through his teeth, trying to focus on the pain shooting through the palm of his hand, where his nails were digging into the soft flesh. 

The knuckle dragger had the nerve to laugh, glancing around at his sidekicks to prompt them into following. “You just don’t learn, do you?” he asked. “Still want to take me down. I’m like the phoenix. I’ll just rise again and again –”

The anger surged up in a tidal wave and Jim forced himself to walk away, out onto the street, Flass’s voice following him – 

“And again and again.” 

***

Oswald was very rarely hungover; he had a decent tolerance and enough self-control to know when to quit drinking. Over the years, he mastered the skill of drinking just enough to stay on the enjoyable side of buzzed, never drunk enough to reveal dangerous secrets, and certainly never drunk enough to be so clumsy he got himself killed. 

Last night had been an exception. He was mostly alone, save for Butch, and after he closed the club, they took a bottle of bourbon into Fish’s room (his room now) and passed the bottle back and forth, talking about nothing in particular. 

It came back to him in waves now, shared moments of laughter, hushed confessions, like that Butch would steal booze from the club when Fish owned it, only to share it with her after they closed, thick as thieves. She would pretend not to know where it came from, especially since she required all of the staff to pay full price for the drinks they bought from the club. But Butch wasn’t staff. They were friends, Butch recalled wistfully. He loved her. 

Oswald knew that, at least. He remembered the jealousy he felt for Fish and Butch’s connection, their closeness, knowing that he would never have that with anyone else in the business. He was terrible at making friends, worse at keeping them, and he certainly had a penchant for men he could never have.

He felt obliged to share in return, if only so Butch didn’t feel like he offered something for nothing. He remembered now, as he rested his aching head in his hands, suddenly uncomfortable on his little red couch, that he admitted to his curious feelings for Jim Gordon, the words tentative in his mouth. 

Butch, to his credit, looked less than surprised. “That’s pretty obvious,” he’d said before taking a swig of bourbon and passing the bottle back. “Loving a cop is dangerous –”

“Don’t be ridiculous –”

“I’m never ridiculous,” Butch pointed out. 

His recollection was cut painfully short as someone knocked firmly, nudging the ajar door fully open. “Your numbers are going up,” Zsasz’s voice was pleased, and suddenly amused. “My, my, what do we have here?” 

Oswald groaned, collapsing back onto the leather cushions. “My numbers are up? Lovely,” he sounded like he found it far from lovely, but he didn’t care. The room was vibrating with light, with sound, with pain. He suddenly hated alcohol with a fury he hadn’t known in a long time. 

“A disappointing lack of enthusiasm,” Zsasz replied. 

“Yay, my numbers are going up,” Oswald retorted sarcastically. Zsasz, in the doorway, chuckled under his breath but didn’t say anything. “How about we celebrate by you getting me a glass of water, about five aspirin, and not speaking for the next few hours while I recover?” 

***

Jim found Commissioner Loeb at his desk, signing his name at the bottom of a document. “Arnold Flass is a murderer,” he said without preamble. “He deserves to be in jail.” 

Loeb didn’t even bother looking up. “Arnold Flass has been legally exonerated,” he said. “The judge heard testimony. The case is closed.” To drive home his point, he snapped his pen closed and tossed it nonchalantly on the desk. 

Already too angry to form a coherent rebuttal, Jim exhaled sharply. “You – you used your connections to orchestrate his release. You perverted the system.” 

“Petulance and naivete are a bad combination,” Loeb replied, adjusting his glasses. “Know when you’re beaten.” 

“I was knee deep in the Flass investigation,” Jim snapped. “There was no one with enough credibility to trump our evidence." 

Loeb smirked at him, far too sure of himself, and for the first time since he stormed past the frightened secretary, Jim felt like he was losing this battle. Like he had already lost. 

“I do so enjoy when unwavering certainty is undermined by truth.” 

He tapped a key on his laptop and Jim realized, as the tape began to play, that his instinct was right. He had already lost. 

***

“I can see why you don’t drink to get drunk very often,” Zsasz said as Oswald thumbed through the rack of clothes at the back of the room. “Hangovers turn you into a brat.” 

“Don’t sell me short, Victor, I’m always a brat,” Oswald remarked, grabbing a tuxedo jacket with tails off the rack. “With a hangover, I’m just a brat with a headache.” 

“A dehydrated, irritable, nauseated brat with a headache and a craving for donuts,” Zsasz added, reaching for the jacket to help Oswald slip it over his shoulders. “Somehow, you still look good.”

Oswald’s eyes met his in the mirror, Oswald thankful to have something to look at that wasn’t his hopelessly smeared eyeliner or his clammy face. Zsasz looked to be sincere, at least, but Oswald still didn’t believe his compliment. 

“Anyway,” Zsasz said into the silence, “I didn’t come here to be your errand boy, despite what you might think.” 

“Right,” Oswald blurted, if only to add more volume to the awkward silence that followed Zsasz’s compliment, “You came to tell me my numbers were doing better.” 

“Actually,” Zsasz shrugged with one shoulder, reaching into his pocket, “I came here to bring you this,” he said, holding up a little strip of velvet with a metal ring in the middle. At Oswald’s questioning glance, he added, “It’s a collar, like the one I had on when I first came here. You said you liked it, so I tracked down one I thought would be more your speed.” 

Oswald blinked, surprised. Zsasz said he’d find one for him, but Oswald thought that was just…a placating statement, an empty promise. He never thought the assassin would go through the trouble of actually finding a collar for him to wear. 

“May I?” 

At Oswald’s gentle nod, Zsasz slipped the collar around Oswald’s neck, under the collar of his white shirt so the ring sat where the bowtie should go, and tied it. It wasn’t tight, but gave a consistent pressure, enough that Oswald was constantly aware of its presence. 

“I knew velvet would be perfect for you,” Zsasz said proudly. “It’s…luxurious.” 

Oswald was about to agree, to thank him for doing something so nice, that obviously meant Zsasz had thought about him outside of his orders given by Falcone, but before he could put any of those sentiments into words, his phone interrupted him. 

“Hold that thought,” he reached for the phone, turning around to sit on the edge of the counter. “James,” he answered. “Thank you for sending my car back so quickly. I hope your friend is okay.” 

He was met with the sound of whipping wind, a man screaming, and Jim’s voice, as though shouted down a tunnel. “I need a favor.” 

Zsasz narrowed his eyes at the phone even as Oswald turned away from him to give himself even a semblance of privacy. “A favor,” he repeated. 

“You see, according to this man I am currently hold out of the window of a moving vehicle, Falcone and Loeb are keeping some files that I need to track down,” Jim’s voice was laced with fury, a dangerous sound that sent waves of adrenaline thrumming through Oswald’s body. At Falcone’s name, he froze. Zsasz was still in the room, close enough to have heard mention of the name. 

Zsasz, despite his apparent desire for Oswald, was still Falcone’s man. Loyal to him and him alone. 

“Come by the club and we’ll talk here,” Oswald didn’t give him a chance to respond, but hung up the phone before Jim could say anything else that Zsasz could hear. 

“I suppose you’re hoping that I will leave before Jim Gordon shows up, asking for a favor?” Zsasz asked, twirling one of Oswald’s eyeliner tubes in his fingers. “Hoping that I didn’t hear him mention Don Falcone’s name?” 

“I don’t know what he wants yet,” Oswald hedged. “But my partnership with Jim Gordon keeps this club full of people. He keeps me safe.” 

“Don Falcone keeps you safe,” Zsasz pointed out. “And he can just as easily decide you’re better off dead. You would do well to remember that.” 

Oswald smiled wryly. “It’s tragic how quickly a nice moment can turn sour, isn’t it?” 

“I don’t want to threaten you, Oswald –”

“Your tone has done more than enough,” Oswald replied sharply. “I am aware of what is constantly at stake. Despite what it seems, I never truly have power. My life is in the palm of several hands.” 

“Maybe one day that will change,” Zsasz said. 

“Until then, I think it’s best if I conduct my business alone.” Oswald tilted his head toward the door, his pulse thundering in his ears. Would Zsasz contradict him? Would he demand to be able to sit in on the meeting with Jim? Would he report this immediately to Falcone? 

But Zsasz left peacefully enough, pressing the eyeliner into Oswald’s hand as he passed.

“Call me when you change your mind.” 

***

Since Jim Gordon dumped him in the river, since Oswald showed up at his doorstep after being expressly told to leave Gotham forever, he was sure they had reached the peak of their desperate plans and Hail Marys. It seemed, however, that he was wrong. Jim wanted him to take him to a set of files, one for every GCPD cop, for every politician, for every person Loeb had dirt on. If he had those files, he could get a man called Flass arrested again. 

Once again, Jim was searching for justice in a place where justice was constantly conspicuously absent.

“Do you realize what you’re asking me to do?” he asked incredulously. “If Don Falcone is working with Commissioner Loeb to keep his trove of secrets hidden and I help you uncover them, I would be working against my patron.” 

Jim, sitting beside Harvey, blood splattered across his shirt, almost rolled his eyes at Oswald’s tone. “That’s right.” 

“If he found out, he’d be very angry.” 

“Are you going to help us or not?” Jim pressed. 

Of course he could; of course he would, especially when Jim was looking at him like that, pleading and angry, a Greek demigod hell bent on wrath. Still, Harvey was still here, and appearances had to be kept. He only hoped Jim understood what he was doing, that he wouldn’t be angry.

“What’s in it for me?” 

Jim almost balked, his eyes slipping over to Harvey for just a moment before they met Oswald’s again. “I’ll owe you a favor.” 

“No questions asked?” Oswald almost grinned.

“Jim.” 

Oswald and Jim’s eyes jumped to Harvey, who was looking down at him like he was begging him not to make a deal with the devil. Jim barely spared him a glance before he turned back to Oswald. 

“Yes.” 

***

“You sure about this, Penguin?” Harvey asked, his eyes narrowed at the little farmhouse in suspicion. “You’re telling me this is where Loeb keeps twenty years of dirty secrets?” He sat back in his seat and turned to Jim. “Doesn’t feel right.” 

“Well what would you prefer?” Oswald asked in exasperation. “A sign saying super secret blackmail hoard?” 

Jim, in the passenger seat, snorted. Harvey leveled him with an icy glare as he turned back to Oswald. “You know what, last time we were all in the car together, you were in the trunk. I liked that better.” 

Oswald rolled his eyes. “Haha, a true comedian you are. Now, go on in there, do your…whatever your plan is. I’ll wait here.” 

“Uh uh, no way,” Harvey immediately interrupted. “You’re coming with us.” 

“Um, not happening,” Oswald snapped. “If whoever is in there sees me and reports back to Falcone –”

Tap tap.

“You fellas lost or something?” An old man asked, friendly smile perched on his lips. Oswald turned away, hoping the darkness in the backseat would obscure his face. He was only too familiar with being on his boss’s bad side; he wasn’t particularly interested in getting back there so soon. 

No one answered. The longer the silence stretched, the more Oswald’s nerves were pulled razor thin. Jim and Harvey were cops; shouldn’t they know what to say in this situation? 

“Good evening, sir,” he said through his teeth, glaring at dumbstruck Harvey. “We were sent by Commissioner Loeb. May we have a word inside, out of the cold?”

“Well,” the man said reluctantly. “Marge is putting on some tea.” 

***

“So, do you have any sort of plan, or am I to expect a repeat of the car fiasco?” Oswald hissed to Jim as they trudged toward the front door. 

His obvious temper was rewarded with a thin-lipped glare and a one-shoulder shrug from Jim. “We might need you to distract the farmer and his wife while we figure out a way to get a look around the place.” 

“Well, Loeb has dirty cops on his payroll, right?” Oswald pointed out, his shoulder pressing into Jim’s as he struggled to get the words out without being overheard. “Pretend that you’re one of them.” 

The glare faded and was replaced with a contemplative brow furrow. “You know, that just might work.” 

He hastened to add to his plan. “You’re doing a…an inspection or something. That should give you full run of the house.” 

“Oswald,” Jim murmured as the farmer opened the door for them. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a genius?” 

He didn’t get the chance to respond, forced to walk through the door into a cramped foyer full of mismatched woods and flannel shirts, but he felt the weight of his words in the clench of his stomach, in the blush on his cheeks, far after they sat down at the weirdly thick homemade wooden table in the dining room.

He was so caught up in that passing compliment, in the way Jim’s eyes lingered on him afterward, that he missed the conversation that happened after that. He was too busy replaying it in his mind, knowing in his own pessimistic way that Jim would never say those words to him with true affection that he was determined to savor what he could get. 

He was so content to be lost in thought that he had to be wrenched back into reality by the sight of the farmer’s wife, leveling a rifle at the dining room table. As luck would have it, she aimed at Oswald first, barely missing as Jim shoved him out of the way and onto the floor. The room erupted in chaos after that, Oswald missing the entire exchange until an uneasy silence fell. 

He peeked over the table to find Jim holding the rifle, and the farmer and his wife with their hands up near the doorway. 

“Oh, Jim,” he breathed. “You saved my life.” 

Jim gave him a wry quirk of his lips and passed over the rifle. “Watch them,” he ordered, his hand pressing Oswald’s into the correct position, warm and steady. “I’ll be back soon.” It was just a moment of Jim’s hands on his, of his eyes intensely locked on his, full of unspoken words, but it felt like it went on for far longer. 

He watched Jim and Harvey go up the stairs, hands on their guns, and as they stepped out of sight, turned his gaze to the husband and wife. Momentarily, he felt lucky that he was given the easiest task of all; to watch these old codgers, hold a gun on them. 

Unfortunately, his luck lasted for only a moment. 

“Don’t I remember you from somewhere?” the husband asked, his gaze sliding over to his wife, as if she could jog his memory, probably unraveling by the second. 

Oswald rolled his eyes. “You don’t,” he assured him. 

“You’re Oswald Cobblepot,” the wife said suddenly, her voice loud. “You’re Falcone’s man.” 

The air seemed to rush out of the room; Oswald clutched the gun tighter in his hand, listening for Jim and Harvey. He heard nothing. He wasn’t sure if that was reassuring or dangerous. 

“You must have me confused with someone else.” 

“I saw you limpin’ on your way up the walk,” the husband said firmly. “You’re the Penguin!” 

Shit. What was he supposed to do now? It would be all too easy for them to tell Falcone who had come here, who had led the cops to his safe house. He would be dead by the end of the week, tossed into the river again. He could feel the burn of the ice cold water already, licking the side of his neck, forcing itself down his throat. 

“Oh dear,” he said as his mind worked in overdrive. “I do wish you hadn’t said that.” 

***

It didn’t take Butch long to find the place; he was powerless to resist Oswald’s strict instructions to speed to the farmhouse. It was borderline easy to stuff the farmer and his wife into the backseat of the car, bound and gagged. Oswald watched the taillights disappear into the late night fog with a grim smile on his face. 

He would have to lie to Jim, but it was necessary. He couldn’t know what was going to happen next. He was protecting him, he rationalized as he trudged back inside and knocked over a few chairs, left the front door gaping wide open, shot the rifle into the wall. 

Jim was down the stairs in a moment, his eyes wild, and stopped on the open door, on Oswald, pretending to struggle to get to his feet. 

“They came at me, Jim,” he stammered, and Jim was by his side instantly, reaching for the rifle, pulling Oswald up and onto the chair beside him. He put a shaky hand on the side of Oswald’s face for just a moment before he dropped it to his shoulder. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper. 

“I’m okay,” Oswald breathed back, momentarily forgetting his charade, forgetting why they were there. 

“Aww, who is he?” a feminine voice asked. “He looks like a pretty bird.” 

Jim smiled before he could catch himself, and stepped away from Oswald, who narrowed his eyes. “Who is this?” he asked. “Did you find the files?”

Jim didn’t answer, but Harvey laughed, a mirthless, cynical laugh that Oswald immediately disliked. 

***

After the farmer and his wife were dead, Oswald sat in the booth, staring at the bodies, at the blood that was slowly spreading around them. There was something peaceful about death, about a battle hard fought, about the rest earned afterward. He was drawn to it, drawn to that darkest part of human existence. 

He wondered, absently, how much Jim would hate him when he found out what he had done with the old husband and wife. Would he try to bring him to task for yet another murder, for more blood on his hands? Or would this blood just blend with everyone else’s? 

“We’re going to have to get this cleaned up before one of the lower guys comes in here and sees it,” he mentioned offhandedly to Butch. 

“I’ll take care of it, boss,” Butch replied nonchalantly. “In the meantime, Jim Gordon is outside. I had the bouncer keep him outside of the club, but he’s asking for you.” 

Jim was staring out toward the street when Oswald got there, the collar of his jacket turned up to combat the cold. Oswald took a moment to just observe him, his severe brow, the stern jaw, the soft eyes. He looked exhausted. 

“Haven’t you seen enough of me today?” Oswald asked. Jim turned toward him, his breath billowing out of his mouth in a puff of visible fog, and chuckled. 

“You’d think, but I just wanted to come by and thank you –”

Guilt washed over him. “I let them get away –”

“I meant for taking us to the safe house,” Jim interrupted. “If anyone mentions that they saw you there, it could mean real trouble for you. That was not lost on me.” 

“It’s nice to be appreciated,” Oswald preened, letting a smile take over. “I don’t think any trouble like that will come up, unless I royally upset Zsasz –”

“Wait,” Jim said sharply. “Victor Zsasz?” 

“Keep your voice down, this is a public street,” Oswald hissed. 

Jim tilted his head even closer to Oswald, his voice coming out in a harsh whisper. “What does Victor Zsasz have to do with this?” 

“How about I tell you about Zsasz and you tell me about the Loeb blackmail over some food?” Oswald asked tentatively. “I’m starving. That woman’s cake was awful.” 

“She makes it with sour cream,” Jim protested, mimicking the farmer’s voice. “I know a diner a few blocks from here, if you can handle slumming it.” 

“Oh James, you’d be shocked at what I can handle,” Oswald laughed. “Take me there.”


End file.
